


After the Funeral

by mightyfinebear



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Other, Smut, pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightyfinebear/pseuds/mightyfinebear
Summary: request





	After the Funeral

Steven McGarret/Reader

He told you to go ahead, he just needed a little a time. He was fine, just a moment was all he was asking for, you obliged.

But now sitting here for the last two and half-hours alone has you second guessing your decisions. He shouldn’t have been left alone. His father was dead, and his eyes had said everything.

               “I am not okay.”

But like an idiot you let him go, you gave him a moment and now that moment has stretched to 3 hours. _You’ve been watching the clock, after all, it was closer to three hours now._

Your fingers comically tap the kitchen table. You want to jump up, look for him, scream, but if you leave before he gets home, you’ll be failing again. So, you sit until the jingle of the keys causes your head to snap to the door.

He opens it, slams it quickly close. You stand as though the sound were a command.  He’s walking toward you.

               “Ste-,” you begin.

But before you can release the last syllables from your tongue his mouth has met yours and his tongue is stealing the last sound. You let him lead, whatever he needs right now. He needs you, apparently. The sound of your torn clothes startles you. You didn’t like those underwear anyway. He slams you against the refrigerator. The wind is knocked out of you.

               "I’m sorry,” he quickly says.

It’s fine, you think. It’s what he needs, as the metal from his belt pings against the ground. His pants around his ankles. He embraces your face but quickly turns your head to the side as his bite-like kisses nip at your neck and earlobe. You can feel his wandering erect cock against your thighs. A blind man looking for a home.

You weren’t ready for visitors when he thrusts into you. Not nearly slick enough, you remind yourself that this isn’t about you, but your voice betrays you as you yelp.

               “I’m sorry,” he whispers into your neck.

But the remorse doesn’t match his cock roughly pushing into you again as your neck jerks, sending your head bouncing off the refrigerator door. Another yelp escapes your mouth. He grips your throat, bits of your hair are caught in his clutch as more yelps leave your throat. The man on the mission is still whispering “I’m sorry” in your ear after each powerful pound of his hips. Your head only, bobbing off the refrigerator now. Your back grinding against a magnet. His path smoother now as your body makes room for him.

It begins as a tingly tickle, a growing momentum. He is screwing you in the exact place he needs to be to get you there. You begin moaning louder, his hips answer the call pounding harder until his knees give out and you two are on the floor. He flips you over, pulls a handful of your hair into his fist and puts the other hand around your mouth. Your ass ricocheting off his hips in wild abandon. You come so hard, but he can’t tell because he still has a hand over your mouth. Your body turns to jello and goes weak as he ruthlessly slams your backside.

Jackhammering away, his breath in disciplined pace, this isn’t ending anytime soon. You wish you could look at his face because you can hear him whispering;

               ‘I’m sorry.”

It’s become a catatonic chant between his perfectly timed breath. He is running a marathon against your backside. It’s becoming too much, you’re going to come again and the weight and numbness in your already pulsing pelvis feels like you may explode. No, it doesn’t feel like you're going to explode because you are, the tiny bomb goes off as the ripples shudder through you, drool seeps between his fingers, from your mouth, his hand still clasped across.

His speed is even faster but less coordinated. He’s wheezing now as you feel the warm, wet, spray against your lower back. He collapses against you. His breath spotted in your ear. Wordlessly still repeating the mantra.

As his hand relaxes against your mouth. You figure it out, he isn’t apologizing to you. You slowly lift your head and kiss his fingers.

               “Your dad knows,” you say.

 


End file.
